I only have one right
by gemstone1234
Summary: In the scene where Sherlock apologises to John in the Hounds of Baskerville imagine if Sherlock had not gone chasing after John. What if he truly believed John hated him for what he said? I feel angsty goodness coming on. Lestrade is also a major character.


_Ah, I just can't help myself; I just really love Sherlock angst. I am still working on my other fics, don't worry those of you who are reading them. I was just watching the Hounds this evening and I couldn't. So those of you who enjoy my writing, here you go. If you don't, just ignore it and move on ;)_

**I just have one… right**

"**Listen, what I said before, John. I meant it. I don't have friends. I just have one."**

"**Right."**

"**John? John!"**

Sherlock watched, despairing as his best friend, the only man who had ever come close to understanding him walked the other direction. It had finally happened, Sherlock had taken it one step too far, it always happened when he began to trust people; he just couldn't seem to stop himself. Only this time it was different. This time it was John, John was different, John was kind and his tolerated Sherlock and his habits. He helped him silently when he needed help, he didn't proclaim it to the world and sometimes the help was so subtle Sherlock himself did not notice. That's how he liked it; he didn't want the whole world to think he was weak, to think that he was average and not brilliant. John certainly did not think he was average, he thought he was a genius, but that was irrelevant now because John hated him and he had left.

Silently he stalked off in the other direction, despite his personal difficulties the case had to continue. He needed to narrow down whether or not the chemical was in the sugar, like he suspected, and then what it was, or at least what group of chemicals it belonged to. He had been planning to test it out on John but he wouldn't be seeing John again so that plan had gone out of the figurative window. He ignored the pang of pain he felt in his stomach when he realised he most likely wouldn't be seeing John again but then he instantly deleted the feeling, and then the emotion. It would bring no benefits to have such trivial and pointless matters clouding his brain and his ability to think.

Even so, he still found himself storming back towards the inn they had been staying at together. Sherlock didn't know what John planned on doing but all his science equipment was up there and he needed it. He could always head up to Baskerville and use their equipment but they knew him there now, he wouldn't be able to sneak back in. There was no way he was calling Mycroft, his brother was too much like him, he'd be able to tell that something had happened, however, unlike Sherlock, he would start snooping around trying to find out what happened instead of leaving him be. There was nothing for it, John would simply have to leave if he came up to their room, why did he have to get them a damn shared room in the first place. Sherlock hated sharing a room with people, not enough privacy. To his horror the detective suddenly realised that his deletion had not gone as well as planned and hurriedly set about trying to dispose of his emotions.

This time did not work either, upon entering the pub, which could not be avoided if he wanted to enter his room, he could feel the eyes of the manager and the chef watching him. "I think they've had a domestic," muttered the manager to which the chef replied with an incredibly irritating, "Mhmm." To this, in a fit of rage- something he had not felt in an awfully long time- Sherlock grabbed an almost full glass of beer and hurled it violently in the pair's direction. They both ducked just in time to avoid impact but by the time they looked up Sherlock had disappeared.

John was exceedingly grateful that he had happened to stumble upon Lestrade. Apparently Mycroft had persuaded him to go and watch Sherlock for him with the promise of being paid triple what he would get if he stayed in London and a 50% pay rise when he returned, and two weeks extra holidays in his contract. That is what it took for the detective inspector to watch the younger Holmes, in his opinion; he was intolerable for any length of time.

As it turned out, he wasn't the only one with that opinion; he'd met John Watson, who was actually seething. It was a very disconcerting situation to find him in. Now they were sitting in a pub, both nursing a whisky while John had a rant and Lestrade listened patiently, he was used to hearing Sherlock stories at the yard. Some of them were obvious lies designed to try and get the brilliant yet infuriating man into trouble. Donovan's, 'Sherlock tried to kiss me' was probably the most transparent and ridiculous one he had heard, it was flawed on so many levels. There was no doubt in his mind that what Dr John Watson was telling him was completely true, what puzzled him was why he was reacting so strongly to it, he knew Sherlock. The emotions John was referring to were certainly out of place but John of all people should know that the sudden onslaught of emotions in a normally emotionless being would create unstable reactions to said emotions.

"And then he claimed I was his only friend," finished John. "Can you believe him? I have no doubt that it is true but its obvious why isn't it. He's brilliant but so infuriating, I couldn't take it anymore Greg, I just couldn't." Lestrade smiled sadly and took a swig of his whisky, grimacing slightly as he felt the burn in the back of his throat. "You're right John; he doesn't have many friends. Most likely because of his, oh, his, what's the word?"  
"Asperger's."

"Yeah, that's it. When I first met him he took drugs to drown out the outside stimulation. He couldn't even look at a person's face; he would only look directly at Mycroft. It took him the whole year of knowing me just to look at me and a further two years to start helping me on cases. He's never taken to anyone the way he has taken to you."

There was a brief pause while John took a sip of his whisky, he did not grimace at the burning sensation. "He sure has a strange way of showing it," he muttered.

"True, but that's just him, you know that's him. Tell me John, I'm just trying to help here ok, why did you become friends with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I needed someone to share the rent with."

"No, that's why you started sharing a flat with him. Why is it the two of you became friends, and in many senses of the word, why did you become brothers?"

"I don't know."

"Well, I can tell you that it wasn't because you thought he was kind or generous or because he had emotions. Come on John, think, this is important, tell me why."

A few minutes of silence passed before John finally broke it. "Well, he's Sherlock Holmes, he's, well, he's damn brilliant isn't he. Most intelligent and most interesting man I know. No matter how long you know him you could never understand him, he makes life interesting, no time to be bored even when he is. He's, he's just so damn amazing but so, incredibly exasperating."

"And that hasn't changed over this incident has it?" John shook his head and took another sip from the nearly empty whiskey glass. "So what is it that's really bothering you."

"The fact that still, after all this time, he still doesn't understand when he has done something wrong. He knows that I was annoyed so he apologised and it was so fake, I'd rather him not do it at all."

"Sherlock doesn't apologise," stated Lestrade, finishing off his whiskey and standing up, donning his jacket. "Come on John, we have to go." John stood up obediently, confused as to why there was such sudden movement.

"Why?"

"I'll explain while we're going, come on, we need to run." John followed Lestrade to his car after throwing some money at the bar tender and telling him to keep the change.

"Remind me," said Lestrade as he started the engine going. "When did all of this happen?"

"Hmm, late morning, very close to noon."

"Damn," muttered Lestrade glancing at the darkening skies. "Anything could have happened by now."

"Would you please tell me what is going on?" asked John, highly frustrated and now slightly scared.

"John, Sherlock doesn't fake apologies out of the desire to seem polite, he does not see the point in such social norms. Also, an apology would mean he had to accept that he did something wrong. He won't do it, not to help a case along, his pride gets in the way."

"So what you are saying is that, even though they may have sounded fake, he was actually being sincere?" Lestrade nodded and John smiled slightly. When it came to Sherlock Lestrade really did know what he was talking about. He did feel a small pang of guilt as he remembered the expression on his friend's voice and his pleading tone as John turned his back, all of which he thought was acting, Sherlock was remarkably good at it.

"That doesn't explain the sudden rush though Greg."

"Has Sherlock ever apologised to you before, for anything?" John thought for a moment and then shook his head. It seemed disturbing yet unsurprising at the same time.

"No, he apologised to me once before."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, he shot me in the leg and I nearly bled out."

"What the hell? Why did he do that?"

"It wasn't really his fault. We were in a dark warehouse; we split up looking for the thugs. I saw Sherlock the other side of the building, thought he was a thug and shot at him. I grazed him on the rib cage. Of course he responded, thinking I was also a criminal, shot at me. He has much better aim than me but it's not brilliant. He got me in the thigh. Instantly he realised it was me, ran over to me and began putting pressure on the wound. One of the thugs managed to sneak up on him due to his worry for me, they knocked him unconscious. I fell unconscious due to blood loss. I woke up in hospital; he was next to my bed. He said he was sorry for shooting and nearly killing me and left. I didn't even have time to tell him it wasn't his fault."

"Don't get me wrong Greg, that is dreadful, but why are you telling me now?"

"I was just leaving the hospital on crutches a week and a half later when this guy was rushed passed me. I heard someone shouting something about a drug overdose. I thought I recognised the hair but I couldn't place it, I went in and asked a doctor in reception if he knew the name of the man. He told me he did but he was not able to disclose the information to the public. Luckily I still had my badge so I flashed it at him and he told me it was Sherlock. I sat next to his bed when he woke up, he wouldn't tell me anything but Mycroft had found him, he told me that Sherlock had been muttering stuff about letting me down."

John just sat there, he was learning of a side of his friend he did not know and did not want to know. "Do you remember the Christmas party we had at yours?" continued Lestrade, his eyes constantly on the road. John nodded.

"How could I forget?"

"Good point. Anyway, do you remember him apologising to Molly?"

"Yes."

"And then he was about to go off to his room when he got that text, he picked the present off the mantelpiece and stalked off. He wouldn't talk to anyone." John shuddered at the memory.

"I don't want to hear all this Greg, please, get to the point."

"Of course. The point is that when our consulting detective feels the need to apologise he believes there has been a severe lapse in his judgements, probably he feels he has let his emotions control him and ultimately doing stupid because of them. With me it was fear, with Molly it was regret, and with you it's probably a mixture of all negative emotions. In his mind letting yourself get carried away in emotions is the greatest treachery of his mind. When he thinks he has committed this sin his mind turns in on itself."

John felt his heart drop. If Sherlock devoted all of his energies onto something there was no stopping him. If turned in on itself it had the capability to rip the already slightly mentally unstable man to shreds. And this had been happening for the past seven hours while John moaned about him, he felt a terrible feeling of trepidation set in.

Lestrade turned the car engine off after parking and the two men dashed into the pub, all they could think about was Sherlock's safety. "What happened between you two?" the manager asked John when he entered the pub.

"What do you mean?" he asked, panting and really wanting to get away but this was obviously about Sherlock so it might be important.

"He came in here, face like a thunder cloud sort of thing, he stormed past. I said something to Billy about you two probably having a fight and he threw a pint of beer at both our heads."

"Crap," muttered John and Lestrade simultaneously they took off towards John's and Sherlock's room, Lestrade followed John.

Hastily John dug out the key which was deeply buried in his pocket and unlocked the door to reveal what looked like a gruesome crime scene. But there was no sign of Sherlock. There were smears of blood all over the wall and bloodied handprints on the windows. Books, bed sheets, chemicals clothes and other peculiar items Sherlock had insisted on taking were strewn across the room, obviously thrown, hard. The doctor and the detective inspector slowly walked into the bomb-site which had previously been a hotel room to look at the one thing that still remained correct in the room. Sherlock's microscope, still complete with slide, and a piece of paper with a lot of chemicals jotted down, all crossed out except one which was circled. "I think that is what caused them to see the hound deduced John out loud.

John's voice triggered a very loud noise from the bathroom and John quirked a concerned eyebrow, he approached the door carefully, both John and Lestrade prepared for the worst. Sherlock jumped up, out of the bath as the door opened, blood poured from his fists and the shattered mirror in the corner spoke volumes about what caused them to be bleeding so much. The detective was breathing rapidly, essentially hyperventilating, his eyes were glazed over, obviously high on something. If John were to guess he'd managed to produce at least a variant of the hallucinogen used to make the victims see the hound. Sherlock was grasping his harpoon with both hands, his whole body seemed to be trembling, he was wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and John could see how incredibly thin his friend was, his ribs were easily countable under the skin. Something to think about later but it certainly wasn't his most pressing issue at the time.

"Greg," whispered John. "There's a black bag under my bed. Can you go and retrieve the needle labelled methohexital, it's a sedative, I'll keep him busy." Lestrade nodded, not bothering to ask why the man was carrying around such a strong sedative. "Sherlock, mate," started John, hoping to be able to get the harpoon off of him. "How're you doing?" Cautiously John took a step forward causing a much unexpected reaction from his friend. He squeaked, literally squeaked, dropped the harpoon then retreated back into the bath. Carefully he stepped forwards and picked up the harpoon, now relieved Sherlock could not kill them or seriously maim them. However, disturbed by the close proximity Sherlock jumped out of the bath and darted out of the bathroom. Luckily, Lestrade had thought to put the chain across the door before looking in the bag and the detective's hands were shaking too much to allow him an escape. The doctor quickly locked the harpoon in the wardrobe which, surprisingly, was still intact.

Realising he was trapped Sherlock started eyeing John up, obviously trying to figure out if he could defeat the man when suddenly his focussed to an object behind John and the man shrieked. "Now would be a good time Greg!" shouted John, glancing behind himself just to be sure.

"You have a lot of stuff in here John, I'm just getting there. Ah, here it is!" he said, holding it up proudly before quickly passing it over to John. Suddenly Sherlock charged the wall screaming death threats, the impact made the two men shudder but thankfully there was no snap or crack of bone. "I think we're going to have to try and corner him," commented John sadly and Lestrade nodded in agreement as he watched the younger man darting around the room frantically. "We'll corner him in the bathroom, then can you hold him still as long as you can, I think I'll have to settle for injecting this into his thigh instead of finding a proper blood vessel.

It took about ten minutes to trap Sherlock in the bathroom and both men felt horrible, treating such a brilliant man like he was a wild animal. Another ten minutes and several bruises and profanities later Sherlock had stilled enough for John to hold his right leg down, briefly check for any air in the medication, pull the safety cap off the syringe and shove it into Sherlock's thigh. This sent him into a new panic but after twenty seconds he began to calm. "Can you get him some fresh clothes out?" John asked Lestrade, forcing his voice to sound calm and collected. Silently Lestrade got up and John sat down and dragged his friend's head into his lap. Suddenly his eyes opened looking straight at John and for a moment they looked fairly lucid. "I'm sorry."

"I know mate," replied the older man sadly. "I know Sherlock, its ok though," he soothed while he gently stroked his friend's hair as he drifted into the realm of unconsciousness.

_Thank you for reading, I hope it wasn't a complete waste of time on your part, unless, of course, you like wasting your time. Do review if you can, they make my day._

_For those of you who have not guessed it I have not built a time machine and cast myself about 100 years into the past, I have not had a sex change and I have not changed my name to either Sir Arthur Conan Doyle or Steven Moffat. Therefore, sadly I cannot claim that I own any of these characters. Sorry to disappoint you if I thought you did. _


End file.
